


King in the Mountain

by allowaykirk



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Celtic Mythology & Folklore, F/M, Greek Mythology - Freeform, I am demanding custody, I will forever be in denial, I will not let this dumb dad die, Maggie Steifvater do u hear me, Mythology - Freeform, SaveGansey2K16, pre-raven king ramblings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-09
Updated: 2016-02-18
Packaged: 2018-05-12 17:33:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5674597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allowaykirk/pseuds/allowaykirk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Summary:<br/>“Have you heard of the legends of sleeping kings? The legends that heroes like Llewellyn and Glendower and Arthur aren’t really dead, but are instead sleeping in tombs, waiting to be woken?”<br/>—Richard Campbell Gansey III</p><p>Rambling on The Once and Future Gansey before The Raven King comes out</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Of a Thousand Names

First there was Hector.  
A prince of peace first and foremost. A son, a husband, and a father, who loved his family and his people with all his heart.  
He did not want to go to war. But Fate is never kind to kings.  
And then a slip of a sword, and Patroclus was dead, his eyes rolling back into his lover’s helmet.  
Hector had killed the wrong soldier, and he paid for it with his life.  
Achilles, mad with grief, dragged the body behind his chariot for twelve days.  
But Hector’s flesh did not rot. Surrounded by the stinking, crumbling bodies on the battlefield, he seemed all but glowing, ready to stand and fight when he had recovered from his injuries.  
Rumors began to drift through the camps. Soldiers whispered behind cupped hands that Hector was simply sleeping. That the gods had blessed him, and that once he had rested, he would rise again.  
Finally Achilles, still weeping for Patroclus, handed Hector’s body over to King Priam. Twelve days late, Hector’s funeral pyre was built and burnt, and his gleaming, deathless body went up in flames.  
The whispers faded, but not entirely. Who could dismiss a body that did not decay for twelve days?  
But life went on. Troy fell, Greece became Macedon.  
And then Alexander the Great fell ill. His body lay between life and death for twelve days, his soul struggling between realms before the court’s very eyes.  
For twelve days, his body was untouched by time—dead, and yet still alive.  
Just like a certain prince before him.  
And as Alexander’s body was sealed in its sarcophagus, his citizens could not help but wonder if it was a trick of the gods. For how could a mortal, or even a demigod, cheat death?  
When a plucky tribal king from Tintagel came looking for knights, the townspeople didn’t think much of it. But in the next few years, they began to hear stories—of a king that slayed dragons and Briton’s enemies alike.  
And so King Arthur rose to power, smiting the Saxons with a smoking sword and uniting the lands. And even as he fell to Mordred and his body was sent out to the Isle of Avalon, people began to whisper that’d he’d come back. He’d always come back. He shared that famous soul—the soul that jumped from king to king, the soul that had evaded death.  
So when Charlemagne came charging through Europe, some said that he was Alexander in another body, raised from the death to bring back his glorious empire.  
And when death came to claim him, he suffered for a week before his soul finally left his body. He was buried on a frigid night in the Untersberg Mountain. Soon after the funeral, herders on the Alps heard the sound of a hunting horn coming from inside the mountain.  
Charlemagne’s horn.  
Whispers became fairytales. They became legends.  
The people waited breathlessly for their king to return.  
The hills of Europe were quiet for a while. And then a Welshman, Llewelyn the Great, was said to be called ‘The Second Achilles.’  
Their king had returned.  
And so when Llewelyn aged and died, his kingdom mourned, but did not despair. He’d return again.  
And Owain Glyndŵr arose form the ashes of his former self, ready to unite his homeland in defense against the English. And as he waged battle against King Henry, his armor shining in the brilliance of summer, the soldiers were breathless in awe. Glyndŵr was something else, something other. A spirit, a marvel of magic.  
His reputation even spread through England, through the mouths of his enemies. Glendower, they called him. And they whispered his name, both in fear and in reverence.  
But then the battles turned sour. The Welsh forces tired, and their strongholds fell. And as his kingdom began to crumble, Glyndŵr disappeared.  
“He’ll return,” the people said. “He always has.”  
The farmers tilled their fields. The sun rose and fell and rose again.  
Wales fell to the English. King Henry died, and his blood ran through his ancestors.  
The king’s soul did not return.  
Unrest began to stir in the countryside. People began to search for Glyndŵr’s grave, hoping to stir his soul to rise again.  
No grave could be found.  
The people began to panic. Perhaps Henry had gotten a hold of their king, and performed some ritual to trap his soul so it could never return. But as hard as they looked, they could not find his body.  
Hope dwindled. The legends became whispers, and were all but buried in the past. It seemed that the king’s soul would not rise again.

And, indeed, it was a long time.

Glendower remembered a ship.  
It was a dark, hazy memory, like the memory of a dream. He remembered the lapping waves, the briny wind, and the creak of the ship as it rocked and rocked.  
He was sure it had been a long journey—he had watched the sun climb over the masthead countless times. And then he felt the boat hit land.  
Gentle hands lifted him and carried him up the beach and into a forest. And he was brought into a cave carved into the hillside. Like Charlemagne before him, Glendower mused as the mouth was sealed shut.  
He heard leaves rustling, still, even in the cave. And he could almost see the pattern of sunlight as it wove through the tree branches.  
He spent ages in that cage, listening to the dripping of rainwater and the scuffle of animals outside.  
And then something came in the cavern.  
It didn’t come through the old passageway the sailors had taken him. It crept in through the tunnel of the cave, which led deeper into the heart of the hill.  
And a whisper began to murmur in the darkness, and Glendower felt the familiar tingle in the air, sparking like static in the stale air.  
“Cabeswater,” he breathed.  
And indeed, he breathed Cabeswater. He felt its electricity enter his lungs, felt the rush of air through his throat. The presence pulled his breath through his body, forcing the first semblance of life he had felt in centuries.  
The air became so charged that stones quivered and shook on the cave floor.  
Glendower gasped at the effort of forcing words through his mouth—it was a struggle to break away from Cabeswater’s rhythm. “What do you want from me?”  
Two lives are dying on the ley line. Do you feel them?  
Glendower tried to think past his aching throat and extended his mind. And indeed there were two souls struggling around him. As he focused on them, he could almost hear them.  
They sounded so young. Like children.  
Now’s your chance, Cabeswater hissed in his ear. And with a flash, Glendower understood.  
“Take me,” he whispered.  
And Cabeswater took a grip on his soul, and they streamed upwards, spinning dizzily towards the sky.  
But Glendower felt the pull of the ley line, felt the two squirming souls of the children as they struggled to breathe.  
One was closer—and alone. Glendower reached for him, and Cabeswater obeyed, swooping down.  
“Someone else is dying on the ley line when they shouldn’t,” Glendower mused as he fell down, down. “And so you will live when you shouldn’t.”

But debts must be repaid.

A sacrifice, Cabeswater howled. A sacrifice.  
Gansey still didn’t understand what happened that day—when he should have died on the ley line, but didn’t. But he was starting to.  
A debt must be repaid, Cabeswater murmured in his ear. You must return to the grave.  
Cabeswater’s tendrils solidified around him, and he watched as a sword, glowing with Cabeswater’s power, rose from the mist.  
Excalibur. Joyeuse. The sword with a thousand names, here to claim another life.  
One word from Adam was all it would take to push the blade through Gansey’s chest.  
“Do it, Adam,” he said. His teeth were chattering, so he clenched his jaw so tightly it hurt. “Maura was right—it’s my destiny to die.”  
“No,” Ronan said savagely. “Gansey, there has to be another way.”  
“Glendower has to continue on, Ronan!” Gansey turned to Adam. “Adam, please.”  
Adam’s hands shook as he outstretched them. But he pulled back, trembling. “I—I can’t. Gansey, I can’t…”  
“Noah—“ Gansey turned, but Noah was overcome with the power of the ley line. He shook worse than Adam—a blur of a ghost, his image doubling and smearing. It was all Blue could do to hold him together.  
Their eyes met, and an understanding passed between them.  
Blue—bless her—had the grace and control to look exasperated. “What you’re asking me to do…”  
Gansey smiled sadly. “Cabeswater needs a sacrifice. Otherwise the ley line will rip apart.”  
“Fuck the ley line!” Ronan bellowed.  
“It’ll destroy the whole town,” Gansey yelled back. “And the forest will explode, Ronan. Your sass isn’t going to save you from that!”  
Ronan sucked at his teeth and fumed but didn’t retort. Gansey took that as a victory and turned back to Blue. “Blue, I’m begging you. It’s our only chance.”  
She stepped towards him. Their hands met, and for a moment Gansey could hardly hear Cabeswater’s roar.  
He pressed her close.  
“When I was told to go looking for Glendower,” he whispered into her hair, “I didn’t realize I’d be looking for myself.”  
“When I was told I’d kill my true love,” Blue replied grimly, “I never pictured it like this.”  
“You’re not killing me,” he said firmly. “I’m going to die anyways. It’s either I go, or all of us do.”  
He felt Blue nod into his chest.  
Gansey turned to Adam. “Find his grave. Maybe then…”  
Adam’s eyes pooled, but he nodded like he understood. He waved his hand, and Gansey felt the pull of the mist as, grudgingly, Cabeswater let the sword drop.  
And Blue pulled Gansey down to her height—Gansey found he had to buckle his knees to meet her mouth.  
But, oh, it was worth it.  
Those hurried nights of running his lips across her cheek didn’t even come close to comparison. The closeness of her—her breath hissing against his, the warmth of her lips, and how her mouth even tasted good, simply because it was hers. Finally, Gansey couldn’t help thinking. He found himself wrapping his arms around her and lifting her into the air, her feet dangling against his shins. Blue grabbed at his shoulders, her fingers digging into his back, but he didn’t mind. It was further reinforcement that she was there, with him, and that was what he needed just then.  
Gansey felt wetness fall on his face. And maybe his eyes were watering too. He ached for a chance at a kiss with Blue that wouldn’t make them cry. Perhaps if they kissed long enough, they could forget why they were doing this.  
But kisses couldn’t last forever.  
He bent back down to set Blue on her feet again. And as their lips parted, Gansey felt the coolness of the air against his mouth, now cold from the absence of Blue’s warm lips.  
Sealed with a kiss, Cabeswater hissed, and Gansey felt the air grow even colder. The ground began to shake, the same way it did when the stampede came for Whelk. He felt panic rising within him, and scrabbled for Blue, but the world seemed to turn around them. He was thrown backwards, and Blue stumbled to Ronan. Gansey tried to stand, but something pulled at his hands. He looked down and screamed—the roots and vines had snagged onto his fingers, coiling up his hands and around his wrists.  
He fought viciously, but their grip only strengthened. The others rushed forward, but the ground shook again, and cracks appeared in the dirt.  
“Adam!” Gansey yelled, fighting as roots began to crawl across his chest. “The grave! Find it!”  
“I will,” Adam answered, but Gansey barely heard him. His voice was broken, shattered, it seemed.  
The roots tightened their grip on him. I don’t have time, Gansey thought wildly. “Blue! Ronan, Noah—“  
But before he could even think, the ground crumbled beneath him. He fell into a cavernous chasm, his body battering against the tunnel’s side, the stone ripping at his flesh.  
And he landed—oh, he landed. A bone-shattering crash that shook the whole cave. Gansey lay there, too weak to cry out, too hurt to move.  
How, he thought dizzily, could a dead thing feel pain?  
Because he was dead, that was for sure. There was the awful sensation in his chest from that first death—his heart stuttering and stopping in his chest, a strange hollowness in his lungs, the heat leaving his body. But dead things couldn’t shiver.  
Gansey wasn’t sure a dead thing could cry, either, but then again Noah had cried, and he was a ghost. So he cried until his head ached even more, and his eyelids were stinging and swollen.  
Finally, tiredness cut through the agony. Gansey felt his soul tugging upwards, pulling away from his body.  
Adam would have fought to stay in his own skin, his one bodily possession. Ronan would have spit fire and drawn blood before he could be pried away from life. But Gansey could not find the strength.  
So he closed his eyes, the warmth of Blue’s lips a ghost in the awful cold.


	2. Lazarus

“At least it wasn’t wasps.”  
The words made him stir, but not enough to feel properly awake. It was like when he was a child, and his sister would wake him for school…  
The memory slipped from his mind as if ripped away by the wind. But then he felt a hand on his chest. The warmth of a living soul.  
And he remembered.  
His name was Gansey. And he was a king.  
And that voice…  
“Come on Gansey, wake up.” Adam’s voice hitched. “I didn’t spelunk my way down here just to say goodbye again.”  
Gansey couldn’t move—not yet. But the warmth of Adam’s hand coaxed his chest to rise, and he coughed at the dust that had settled in his lungs.  
“Gansey,” Adam whispered, his voice reverent. “Oh, Gansey—“  
Gansey felt a head on his shoulder, and heard Adam’s rattling sobs. He felt the dampness on his neck. And he remembered. Oh, he remembered.  
“Adam,” he whispered, his voice weak and husky from disuse. With difficulty, he opened his eyes.  
Adam raised his head. He looked older, just a bit—there was stubble on his jaw. And was that a college T-shirt?  
“How did you—“  
“Cabeswater,” Adam said with a bashful smile. “And Gwenillian helped, too. She knows all about kings’ burials.”  
“But the debt—“  
Adam shook his head, a fiery light in his eyes. “He who finds the king demands the reward. We already talked it out, me and the others.”  
Gansey’s heart—for the first time in ages—tugged in his chest. He felt the trace of warmth on his lips. “The others…”  
Adam nodded. “They’re alright. I mean—it’s been hard. But they’re alright.” A shaky grin began to rise. “I have a feeling they’ll be happier once we get you out of here.”  
So, with Adam’s help, Gansey rose. And together, they—King and Magician, friends and brothers—walked out into the sun.


End file.
